


Who Is Worth Saving

by Gildedmuse



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Drug Use, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, HIV/AIDS, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Pre-Canon, Short One Shot, Stylistic Steal From Allen Ginsberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 13:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18739843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedmuse/pseuds/Gildedmuse
Summary: Through all the mistakes Roger has made, does he really deserve to be saved?





	Who Is Worth Saving

**Author's Note:**

> [Posted yo LJ in 2006]

**Who Is Worth Saving**

 

_ Who searched for passion and found dark haired wild eyes bruised arms girls who carried all the secrets of heaven in her pocket. _

 

As soon as Roger climbs off-stage, a pack of girls swarm him for autographs and pictures. Roger gives them a smile for their troubles, but tells them no, tells them that they should save their film and paper for someone more interesting. Honestly, Roger isn't used to being ambushed like that. He doesn't know how to react to the flirting and the shy giggles. Strangers who love his music he'd planned for, had been dreaming of them since he first picked up a guitar. Sure, screaming girls had been a part of that, but he hadn't prepared for their claims to love him after only hearing one set, not even knowing his name.

 

He detaches himself from the group pretty quickly. The next band is already on stage and Roger is forgotten when this new lead singer proves to have gorgeous eyes, or a fantastic body, or whatever these girls find so appealing in guys like Roger. His clothes are drenched in sweat, his hair sticking out at weird angles, and he's pretty sure that slightly funky smell is coming from him. He doesn't feel sexy at the moment, regardless of what a few drunken teenagers might think. He feels tired. Not just from being under the hot lights, expending his energy into the crowded room in hopes of someone picking up on his message. Not from the weeks, months, years of hard work he and his band have put into having what the Village Voice called "destined for overnight success" after their first CBGBs gig. It feels to Roger like he's been putting too much into his music lately and getting so little back other than a few screaming girls. Maybe this is how it is supposed to feel right before the fame and glory kicks in. Roger doesn't know. He just knows it's exhausting.

 

He leans against the bar, keeping an eye on the bartender as he moves back and forth between customers. Roger is about to speak up and get the guy's attention when he senses someone in his personal space. In the club, it's hard to keep from being knocked into every now and then, but this isn't just someone dancing too close or "accidentally" brushing up against him. This guy is just standing there, waiting. His mind flashes back to those girls gathered around him, and his stomach drops.

 

A few awkward seconds pass, and neither of them has made a move.

 

Roger takes out a cigarette, giving his hands something to do. While he's lighting it, he looks up at the kid next to him. His first thought is that he must be lost. The ugly striped shirt, bowl cut hair, chunky black glasses. Nothing about him blends in with the hot, colorful background of the club. He's just as out of place as Roger feels.

 

For a while Roger's just staring at this kid, waiting for something to happen. In the dark, smoky bar it's impossible to tell what the kid is thinking as he stands there, but Roger feels like he's being studied and it's unnerving. The club is alive with music and voices, but a silence gets broken when Roger finally says, "Hi."

 

"Mark!" Like a kid caught playing in his parents' room, the kid snaps to attention. "I'm Mark. Um... You're Roger, right?"

 

Roger can't help but wince. It's just like the girls from earlier, and he feels bad that Mark must have had to work up the courage to come over and try speaking with Roger, and all the rock star can do is blow him off. What choice does he have, though? Give him an autograph, get his hopes up and dance with the kid only to brush him off later. "Hey," he replies, teeth worrying his lower lip wondering how he can do this without acting like a total asshole. "You seem nice, I just don't go," Roger makes a swooping motion with his hand to take the place of actual words, "that way."

 

Mark cocks his head to the side and asks, "what?" before something clicks. His face turns a shade of red Roger's never seen before. "Oh! No, I was just-"

 

"You did it!" Mark gets cut off by a loud, low voice and arms wrapped around his chest. Before Roger knows anything else about this girl who has popped up beside Mark, he knows he loves her smile. For a second he doesn't even notice anything else about her, just the curl of her lips and the flash of her teeth, and he's already beaming. It almost seems impossible not to smile when she's looking at him like that.

 

The girl keeps her eyes and grin on him as she starts dancing, mess of brown hair bouncing to the music while she tries to get Mark to sway along. "I didn't think you'd really go through with it, Mike."

 

"It's Mark, April," The kid corrects, shifting out from under her arms. "And you said that if I weren't such a dork you'd tell me about that room for rent, remember? You said that-"

 

"I love your band!" The girl, April, yells at Roger over the music. All her attention is on him, but it doesn't twist his stomach into knots the way the girls from earlier had. She's different. The way she keeps moving to the music, smiling, it makes her look so free and happy. Alive and unaffected by the rest of the world. Like she's somewhere above all the exhausting, dirty stuff that Roger's life is caught up in. Her smile is carefree, relaxed, bright, and Roger's already falling for it. "It's so beautiful! So expressive!"

 

"Thanks!" He yells back, grinning like he's an awkward teen locked away in high school, all over such a simple compliment. Not even a minute with her and already Roger can feel some of that heavy burden lifting off his shoulders. She's just a girl with a sweet smile, curly brown hair, and a tight green dress, but he sees past all that. Sees the way she's got everything he's missing. "I'm Roger."

 

"I know." She giggles, a low throaty sound. She's got an amazing smile, and beautiful eyes that shine even under the cheap lighting of the club that bathes everything in the same monotone glow. "Let me buy you a drink."

 

She walks over to the bar the same way she dances. Constant, fluid motions expecting everyone to move with her or out of her way, and Roger can't take his eyes off her.

 

"She was supposed to show me her apartment."

 

"Huh?" Eyes drawn off this goddess, brought back down to Earth and landing on the lost boy still standing by the bar.

 

Mark shakes his head, shrugging the bag he's got with him further up his shoulder. "Nothing. Never mind."

 

"How do you know her?" Roger asks, turning to watch April lean over the bar to get the guy's attention. She could get anyone's attention, he thinks. She radiates this energy that draws him in.

 

"I don't," Mark answers, not so much staring at April as studying her, searching for something. "I'm just looking for a place to stay until I go back to Brown next fall. She said she had a free room."

 

Without thinking, Roger says, "Building 508, corner of 11th Street and Avenue B." After it's said, he's not sure what possessed him. Seems odd giving out your address to some kid you don't even know. April turns around from paying the bartender, flashes Roger a bright smile and he laughs. God, it's been forever since he's felt like nothing matters. There is no rent, no band, no bills to pay. She smiles, and he forgets that all those things he should be stressing about, at least for a second.

 

"Huh?" Mark asks, again grounding Roger, but a little less this time. He's still smiling, even when he can't see April. He wonders how long these effects will last.

 

"508 on 11th and B," Roger repeats. "If you ever need some place to crash for a while."

 

Mark pushes his glasses up his nose, shifting the weight of his black bag again. He's looking at Roger like he can't quite believe he's real. "Uh... Thanks, I guess."

 

Roger laughs, and he's not even sure why. A cold beer is pressed in his hands as April reappears, beaming. He toasts Mark. "You too."

 

Soft fingers curl around his wrist, tugging him away from the blond kid and towards the rest of the crowd. "Dance?" April calls over the loud music of the other band, and Roger just smiles and lets her lead him away.

 

*

 

_ Who shot up with hallucinations of an angel muse while the personal principality found another brand of passion. _

 

Lips are pressing against his temple, sliding down his jaw. Hands curling and loosening in his freshly bleached out hair and the weight in his lap shifts around. Roger laughs, tipping his head back so that April can work her way under his chin, up the other side. His limbs feel heavy; bones melted away a lot like all his worries and stresses. Instead what he has is this wonderful girl in his lap, warm skin sliding against his, wrapping them in a protective blanket from the outside world. No one knows how to cure him like April does.

 

She came and she brought light. She came and she brought life. She came and she brought heroin. Now everything is clear and fun and fluid. After April, Roger's music seems to write itself. After April, everything is perfect.

 

His heavy, clumsy hands slide under her shirt, up her back. She shifts away, laughing when the cold fake leather of the belt still tight around Roger's arm presses against her side. She drags her teeth over his ear, sinking it into the skin of his neck before giggling again. "Markie's got a girl."

 

She says it in a singsong tone that makes her sound so young. Young and alive. It's why he falls in love with her so quickly. The way she laughs, dances, smiles. It all has this passion behind it, this dramatic sense of just being so full of everything. Who would be able to say no? Every word that falls from her lips, to Roger they each sound like a prophetic call telling him how to live to be like her. She laughs and dances and smiles for him, and he would have follow her anywhere to find out the girl's secrets.

 

"A girly, girl, girl," April chants, giggle breaking through her voice. Roger laughs in reply, hands moving to the front of her shirt. The rest of the club is just a blur, background music to the two lovers. Everyone ignores the musician and his girlfriend with their roaming hands, practically naked and not even hiding it in the dark corners of the club. In turn, they shut out the rest of existence until it's just them and their bodies moving together. That is, until April notices Roger's roommate standing towards the edge of the crowd, talking with someone she's never seen before.

 

"She's not that bad looking, either," she adds, then moans when rough hands grab at her. Roger tips back his head, some of his hair being pulled out by April's fists. The pain barely registers, and he keeps tilting him and the chair until he's looking upside down at the scene just behind him.

 

Mark has his camera out, despite Roger telling him he wasn't allowed to bring it. The girl - the girly, girl, girl April thinks is not that bad looking - is hovering beside him, running a hand over his arm as she points and asks questions. Mark loves the attention to the same way Roger loves it when people compliment his music and Mark eats it up, chatting away and ignoring the bumping and grinding dancing bodies around him.

 

It's been three months since Mark moved in with him, and already Roger feels he knows him enough to say, "So Mark."

 

April shifts on his lap, laying across him and looking over at Mark and the girl who keeps pointing at his camera and flipping her hair. April says, "What a cute couple."

 

"Mark!" Roger yells. April laughs, burying her head in his shoulder. He smiles, petting down her wild curls. He's not even sure why he wants to get his roommate's attention, but since April seems to find it so amusing he keeps calling for him. "MARK!"

 

The girl with the stringy brown curls, not as wild or free as April's, she leans over Mark's camera so that her chest is pressed against him. It's so blatant that even Mark, who usually doesn't see anything if it isn't through a lens, can't help but notice. More than notice. His eyes aren't even trying to find the girl's face.

 

April sings, "Markie's getting laid."

 

Roger laughs. Can't even remember laughing as much before April came into his life. So vibrant. So beautiful. Collins says he's losing too much weight. Mark keeps looking at April like he's scared for her. They don't see that now, together, they are more alive than ever. April crawls over him, nipping at his ear and Roger laughs again, hands finding her skin. Mark and girls with big chests and obvious intentions get forgotten. The world fades out, and nothing means anything except for this. Except for her.

 

*

 

_ Who drank in the self-destruction until they forgot everything except the name of their art and become their song so that without the other they were incomplete. _

 

Beer. Shot. Beer. Shot. The glasses and bottles are starting to block out any sign of a counter beneath them. The stubs of joints pile at their feet, attesting to the two hours of sitting at this bar waiting to forget.

 

A very drunk Mark is glowing blue. Roger narrows his eyes, cocking his head slightly and the eerie glow off his friend's pale skin bleeds into the air around him like a halo. A blue energy that just flows off him until it comes crashing into the green and yellow energies of the dance floor. Everything else is dark, hazy, red, but Mark is a calm and still blue beside him. Detached from everything else, safe behind his bubble.

 

At least, that's how the world looks to Roger after three joints and countless drinks.

 

Mark leans back, and the glow moves with him. "How could I have been so blind?"

 

There is shouting all around them. It's not the best bar to drown your sorrows in, not with the loud music and all the happy couples humping everywhere, claiming it's dancing. It's the only place Roger can get them free drinks, though, and Mark needs some free alcohol in his system. Besides, by now he's so far out of it he probably doesn't even see anyone else.

 

Roger takes a drag of pot, drowning the smoke with a beer. He wonders if Mark sees him. If he's haloed the way Mark is right now. He looks down at his own, tanner skin. He doesn't look like he's glowing. He just looks like plain old Roger, marked up and bruised. He runs a rough finger over the track marks dotting his arm. A story for the blind, showing Roger's path into the light, into April.

 

Mark is looking for something in the heavens. Roger follows his eyes, but all he sees is bright blue lights flashing down from high ceilings he can't make out through the smoke. "What is it about me, Roger?"

 

"Maybe it's not you," Roger suggests. He hears someone laugh and turns to see a teenage girl grinding with her friend. They apparently find this act hilarious. Roger glares at them, goes back to looking at Mark.

 

Every smile and laugh makes him think of her. Tonight, he's no better off than Mark.

 

Maybe that's why he's here, at this bar, getting so drunk he won't be able to find his way back to the loft. Mark and Maureen have a sort of pattern they've worked out. She cheats, he cries about it, she runs back to him and says she's sorry and she loves him so much and she'll never do anything like that again. It's been that way for months. Maybe even since they hooked up. Tonight, though, Roger has grabbed Mark and dragged him down here, telling him he needs to forget all about Maureen for the night.

 

Roger just wants to forget where April is, whose bed she's in right now, why she'd do that for him, for another hit. Roger swallows down half of the beer and waves for another one. Even his own friend is starting to look worried.

 

Over the noise of the club, Roger tells Mark, "Maybe it's her."

 

"Maybe you're addicted," Collins told him when he saw Roger tearing up his room for just a few more dollars, before April came up with her plan. Roger cracks up the new bottle and drowns out his thoughts.

 

Mark slumps against the bar, trying to get his elbows up on the surfaces but missing and taking a few bottles to the ground in his attempt to fit his head on the counter. "I'm such a fuck up."

 

Roger kicks one of the fallen bottles against the counter. It rolls back and he kicks it again. Back to his foot, he kicks it again. Wonders how long it will keep coming back, knowing it will get kicked every time.

 

"I just... I don't know. Why does she have to do this to me?" Mark mutters. He lips are squished against the dirty counter, a little drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. If he weren't talking, he would look dead. "She must love me. Every time, who does she run to when it's over? Me."

 

Kicks the bottle, and it rolls back.

 

Roger's stomach feels empty. Not the kind of emptiness food can fill. Not even an emotional hole. There's just something missing in him. April is going to fix that. He just needs to be patient. She'll get back, and everything will be fine. He'll just pretend he doesn't smell the sex on her, doesn't see that look in her eyes. Maybe this will be their last time. Fuck, he can't stand this anymore. She's more important to him that this. He doesn't need this shit, anyway. Not the way he needs April.

 

The bottle rolls beneath his foot, waiting for Roger to kick it against the wall.

 

Mark's hand flails a bit before it lands on Roger's shoulder. With a groan, he manages to pick himself up, shaking slightly. "I need to go home and wait for her," he says. His feet don't listen, and he ends up collapsing back against Roger. It's not even a second, where he's leaning in with his lips pressed against Roger. Hell, the musician doesn't even believe it himself. Mark's tongue licks at his lips, leaving behind spit that tastes like beer, his breath just as bad. Roger can't even process it before Mark is falling again, hands catching Roger's lap and Mark's throwing up.

 

"Shit!" Roger leaps back, arms tightening around Mark's waist to keep him steady as he chokes out his stomach contents: pure alcohol.

 

As he jumps from his seat, the bottle under his foot is smashed down, cracking into a thousand pieces.

 

*

 

_ Who twisted the boundaries between roommates obsession friends love sexuality and found the walls crumble with nothing more than a push. _

 

The old wooden frame is digging into Roger's back through the worn down fabric of the couch. He shifts to try and get comfortable, only to end up banging his head against the hard armrest. He laughs, not sure why, and the thick white smoke that had been held up in his lungs curls out into the air. Outside, the August heat is finally starting to disappear as night sets in. Inside, Roger and Mark are celebrating Mark's freedom with the last of Collins stash.

 

Mark smiles, rubbing his fingers through Roger's hair and over the bump. He pulls the joint from the musician's fingers, still rubbing just hard enough that Roger twists back against his hands and moans. "You okay?" He asks, placing the joint between his lips for a few seconds before he starts to cough. While he's choking, Roger takes back the pot.

 

"You're so green," Roger says, taking a drag from the quickly diminishing joint. He blows the smoke into Mark's face, laughing a bit at the wrinkled nose look the kid gives him. "Such a good little boy."

 

"Not any more," Mark says, laughing along with Roger. No, now Mark's a real rebel. He's dropped out of Brown, decided he likes New York too much to go back, and fuck if his mom hadn't left two hundred messages on their now unplugged machine yelling at him for this. To stop him from shaking and chickening out, Roger had grabbed some vodka and stolen - no, liberated - the pot from Collins' room and forced Mark to have a good evening. Now it's hard to imagine that only hours earlier Mark had been pacing through the loft, cursing at himself and screaming every time the phone rang. Now it's just two boys curled together on the sofa, enjoying their freedom from rules and girlfriends and school and worried mothers and band practice and money and life.

 

While Roger is finishing off the joint, Mark's fingers began sliding across his arm. Roger is use to these slight, shy touches. He and Mark, they don't believe in personal boundaries. Roger isn't sure why and knows better then to think about it. He's too comfortable to question it.

 

Mark hand slides on his sleeve and shoulder before he starts running it back down Roger's arm. "I want to be like you."

 

"No you don't," Roger says, white smoke flying back into his face when he speaks. Mark is the kind of person young artists trapped back in their suburban lives dream of being. He's passionate, determined, willing to give up anything for his craft. Roger thinks Mark is perfect the way his is, and why would anyone like that want to become a fuck up like Roger? Roger would be lucky to be more like Mark. "You're just high."

 

"That's not true," Mark counters, even when it clearly is, and he even follows the statement up with that funny little giggle snort of his that Collins, Benny, and Roger will never stop teasing him about. "Who wouldn't want to be like you?"

 

Roger takes the compliment with a sort of shrug and another drag from the joint. "You hate attention," Roger says, throwing the stub to the floor. "You would never want to be in front of a group of people like I am."

 

"You're so alive when you're on stage," Mark says. His hand runs back up Roger's arm, over the sleeve this time. "I didn't notice the first time, but after I got to see it on camera..."

 

Roger's laugh is somewhere between out of it and nervous. "You think everything's beautiful and alive on your camera," Roger points out, which is mostly true.

 

Mark ignores him and runs his hand over Roger's neck. "Everyone always loves you," Mark says as his fingers twitch and stop at Roger's pulse, taking it in. Roger tips back his head, letting Mark feel around his skin. It isn't the touching he's nervous about. It's the way Mark sounds so damn serious. Roger doesn't want the kid to be like him. Mark's better than that.

 

"Benny," Roger says, closing his eyes as he feels Mark's hand swoop around to his voice box. "Benny hates my guts." Because Benny knew Mark at Brown, and the differences he saw in that boy at college and the guy Roger's made him into this past year obviously pissed him off.

 

By this point, he's pretty sure Mark's not listening to a word he says. "You're always so confident," he says as his fingers pass over Roger's chin. "No one ever worries about you being too obsessed with your art." A light touch tracing his jaw line. "No one ever cheats on you." Around his face, down his forehead and the bridge of his nose. "You're just... Roger, and everyone accepts that."

 

"And you're Mark," Roger answers. His breath is shallower than it should be, but with Mark leaning over him, fingers light and teasing on his skin, it's hard to stay totally unaffected.

 

"You have a gorgeous voice," Mark tells him, fingers sliding over Roger's lips. "I love your voice. Your eyes. Your smirk. I love your music and passion. I want to be like you." There's a silent gasps and Mark slips his fingers into Roger's mouth. The boy lies down across the couch, snuggling up to Roger's body. Roger moans around Mark's fingers, sucking them between his lips and wrapping his tongue around them. Softer than his own callused guitar hands and slick with spit as they slide in and out of his mouth.

 

Blame it on the pot, on the boy's natural closeness. Blame it on Mark's lack of love or Roger's need for it at all times. Blame it on the million little things the boys have between them. It's not like Roger likes Mark, or that Mark likes him, or anything like that. It just happens.

 

Just happens that Mark pulls his fingers out of Roger's mouth, dragging them back down his jaw. He presses his lips against Roger's ear, whispering, "I want..."

 

Roger turns on his side, wrapping his arms around Mark's waist. The kiss is slow and broken. Somewhere in-between, when Roger's trying to even out his heavy breathing, Mark says, "I want your passion."

 

His hand slides down Mark's back, his sides, between his legs until he's kneading against the crotch of Mark's jeans and the other boy is moaning, pushing into Roger's hand. Mark's fingers curl around Roger's neck, tugging him into another kiss. Deep and searching with no air between them as Mark's tongue dips between Roger's lips, mimicking his fingers and now it's Roger who is moaning.

 

When they pull back for air, Mark says, "I want," again. Riding Roger's palm, breathless, flushed, and high, Mark starts to whimper. "Everything."

 

*

 

_ Who became so addicted to passion that he would swear of devotion in order to feed that addiction. _

 

"I don't even know how it happened," he says, following his beautiful, extremely pissed muse down the stairs and to the street. This isn't exactly true. Roger knows how it happened. It happened like this: Mark had come home and passed out next to Roger on the couch. He'd reached over, patting Mark on the knee as the kid went on about how tough Maureen is being on him, and that comforting pat had somehow ended up massaging and going higher until he's kneading Mark through his jeans and the kid is on his lap and biting at Roger's lips.

 

How it happens is this: every time Roger and Mark touch something goes off. Something left over from last time, so a touch can't just be a touch anymore. A touch turns into a stroke turns into a grab turns into Mark and Roger in some alley way with clothes twisted up around them and Roger's back burning as Mark throws him at hard bricks so they can try and get closer. Roger knows exactly how it happens, he just refuses to believe it. They're still just friends. Friends with this pent up sexual thing between them that Roger can't explain to himself much less his girlfriend.

 

Grabbing for April's arms as she storms down the sidewalk, Roger says, "Please, baby, it's not like it meant anything."

 

April, with make up dripping down her cheeks along the track of tears. April, whose entire life is Roger. April spins around and slaps him and hits at him and tries to hurt him as much as she's hurting. "He was all over you!" She screams, and if this weren't nearing Avenue C maybe someone would have cared instead of just walking right by. "He's your fucking roommate and he was all over you!"

 

Roger lets April scratch at him. Lets her claw and hit and scream because it's the only way he can think to show her he isn't leaving her. Mark, yes, he likes Mark. Mark is his friend and he loves him and they can't stop touching when together. April is Roger's passion. April is Roger's entire life force, and he would never leave that. So he takes her punches until she's reduced to sobs and threatening to walk away again. Then he takes her in his arms, rocks her despite her protests, kisses her while she's still wet with tears.

 

"He's nothing, baby," Roger mutters, lips brushing over the top of her curly hair as they stand in the middle of the sidewalk where no one seems to see them. "You're the only one I love. The only one I'll ever love."

 

*

 

_ Who saw death in its palest coldest form and who refused to believe that the body could exist without the spirit. _

 

It would be the second dead body Roger would ever see up close. The first had been his grandpa, laid out in a casket in his best suit with all his family pretending to cry over the man that had beaten the shit out of them for so many years. This time, though, it would be the first time death got to him.

 

After a practice that ends in a fight, Roger comes home to a couple of cops and Mark's face all wet and afraid.

 

Like it isn't enough that the Pyramid Club canceled their show this week.

 

Like it isn't enough that the laundromat started charging more, and now Roger's running out of shirts that don't smell like alcohol and smoke and vomit and clubs.

 

Or that their toilet is backed up.

 

Or that they might have to get yet another new roommate if Collins' job goes through.

 

Or that April, the love of his life and everything he had been missing and perfection in human form is now nothing but a pile of flesh bleeding out on the bathroom floor with glazed over eyes and a razor blade held against her chest like a teddy bear. He doesn't know that one, yet, but isn't everything else bad enough without the police around?

 

"Roger." The filmmaker's voice is calm and breaking at the same time, struggling for something. Roger moves past him, asking what the hell those guys think they're doing. Asking Benny what the fuck is going on. And small little Mark with his hand pressed to Roger's chest says, "Roger."

 

The first cop is on his radio, ignoring Roger until the other boy starts getting too close. He turns and looks at Roger, looks at Mark, looks at Roger. "Sir." The cop calls him. No one has ever called Roger sir before. The way this guy does, you'd think Roger is a child. "Sir, I need you to stay calm."

 

To Mark, this big faced cop says, "He shouldn't be here."

 

Roger presses on, almost shoving the cop in the chest, demanding to know why they're in his loft. With Mark between them, eyes glistening and face screwed up trying not to cry, Roger reaches around and tries knocking the cop back. Tries to get some Goddamn answers. Mark and the cop, they ignore Roger's outburst. The look at him with pity and let him have this tantrum. The cop just keeps talking into his radio. Mark just keeps holding him back, saying, "Roger, it's about April."

 

So Roger tells the cop, "You lay a single hand on my girlfriend and I'll fucking kill you."

 

The big, stony faced cop who sees Roger and sees the words 'Druggie', 'Homeless', 'Criminal', 'Trash' doesn't take out his handcuffs and start threatening Roger with jail time. Instead he repeats, "Sir, you need to calm down." Like he is talking to a small girl whose cat has just been run over. Apologetic, but unable to see how a cat can be so important. Just sit her down and pat her on the shoulder, listen to her cry for a while, and promise to buy her a new one.

 

The cop thinks, 'there must be a hundred junkie girls on this street alone. Let him throw his little fit and by tomorrow he'll have a new one'.

 

What he actually says is, "Are you the boyfriend?"

 

Mark, with his nails digging into Roger's shoulder to keep him away from the cops says, "Roger, you have to try and understand."

 

Back to the first cop asking, "We may have some questions for you."

 

The other police finally joins them from the bathroom, stepping over something as he walks up behind his partner. "Is everything okay here?" He's got a note in his hand. He's got that same look on his face, serious but trying to fake pity. He looks between all the faces and asks, "Is there a problem?"

 

"Yeah," Roger says, shoving Mark off him and storming up to the police and fuck what they think they have on him or April, he's not going without some sort of fight. "You can-"

 

Somehow, these three men slip up and Roger can see into the bathroom. He has to take a second look. A third. A minute to stare and try and understand.

 

Give a moment for the entire world to crash into him.

 

With his hand on Roger's shoulder, Mark asks, "Roger?" But Roger can't really hear him, because Roger's world is no longer there. She's sprawled out on the bathroom floor.

 

It's then this idiot second cop starts moving in. Roger just stands there, watching April's glazed over eyes watching the ceiling. He reaches out, putting a hand on Roger's shoulder that Roger barely feels. He says, "Excuse me, sir, you need to step back a little. We can't allow you in there until the coroners arrive."

 

Snap.

 

Roger plows forward. He may be a skinny, sick junkie but it takes both men to hold him back and he's still dragging them towards the bathroom screaming, "You fucking bitch!"

 

April lays there, undisturbed by Roger's screaming. The cops are yelling something to him, to each other, to Mark and Benny. Roger fighting them off, not registering anything but the way every part of him is burning in anger. "You fucking bitch, how could you do this to me!"

 

After they've pulled Roger off his girlfriend who can't be dead because she's too alive to be dead even if she's pale and not moving and being pulled out with a sheet over her head, after they get his fingers uncurled from her wrists and the two cops are yelling to Mark who is yelling to Benny who is yelling at Roger who is still screaming at the top of his lungs that April needs to fucking stop now because this isn't funny, after the medics give each other scared looks and start down the stairs and the cops decide it's safe to let go of Roger, after all that the loft goes still and quiet.

 

Benny stands by the door, watching the body gets carted down the stairs and wonders why he still lives in a place where these things can happen.

 

The cops look back and forth at each other and think maybe he loved his pet more than they'd thought. Or maybe he's just high.

 

Mark is trembling by the couch, eyes wide as he looks over at Roger begging himself to stay in one piece.

 

And Roger (exhausted, dead) watches April get torn out of his life. The only thing he can think to say after all the screaming ends is, "Who is going to love me now?"

 

*

 

_ Who was too afraid to do anything but make himself suffer for the passive murder of a wild-eyed goddess. _

 

He can't take it anymore. "It's just for a while," Mark promises, stroking Roger's hair while Roger is torn apart by the pain. Gut twisting and shakes that make him vomit and guilt that eats away whatever is left of him. Because the withdrawal isn't enough. The way his body convulses and withers on the bed, sweating and cold and when it's at its peak - it will just send another jolt of pain through him. On top of that, Roger has to be conscious enough, if only barely, to know it's his fault.

 

He killed April, the best thing in his life. The only one he loved. She had so much life and beauty and energy and he killed her. He can't keep remembering that in the throes of withdrawal. Can't keep flashing back to her face, colorful and alive and cold and slack. "I can't," he tells Mark, twisting in the boy's arms and trying to claw his way out. Mark just keeps holding on, like Roger had never hit him after April found out about them, called him a fag, sent him away. Like Roger had never thrown his film out the window, told Mark he hated him and never wanted to see him again. Like Roger hadn't gone high to his girlfriend's funeral and tried to sleep with Mark the same night because he needed an escape. Mark keeps holding Roger like none of that ever mattered or even happened.

 

Mark holds Roger until he's stopped shaking and clawing and screaming. He holds him like he's trying to tell Roger that he's not leaving. "You can do this, Roger," he whispers as he lays Roger back in the bed and grabs his camera. Because he's still Mark, after all, and Roger knows this. Is depending on the fact that Mark needs to escape just as much as he does.

 

Because, really, how different is a camera from a small bag of powder? Mark needs to distance himself from Roger, to forget that he loves him. Roger needs to distance himself from the pain and the guilt and his own, impending death. So Mark tucks Roger in and grabs his camera with one last, "I know you can get through this, Roger," and they both go find what they need.

 

*

 

_ Who found himself unable to feel in the wake of the guilt for the lost artist or broken girl or careless songwriter. _

 

"Can I come in?"

 

There is a long silence that stretches through Roger's room, through the entire loft where it has settled over the last few weeks. When Mark speaks, the words sound like they're breaking through stale air, crashing before they ever reach Roger. The way he stares out the window, vacant and unmoving, are enough to make Mark wonder if he's been heard at all.

 

He hesitates for a few seconds, and then steps inside the room. It's getting cold in the loft. First week of December, and the air is starting to freeze over. Roger is in his boxers and a shirt, the blankets kicked away and bundled at the end of the bed. Mark picks them up as he passes, dragging them up and setting them over his lap. "Aren't you cold?"

 

Roger blinks, eyes trained on the window, an overview of all the terrors of Alphabet City. A homeless man is being harassed by some kids. He's getting beaten up, curled up on the sidewalk as they kick at him until he's bleeding and motionless. Roger blinks again, the only sign he's still alive. He might as well be the man on the street.

 

"I'm going to help Maureen," Mark says, staring down as the kids grab the man's coat, yelling at each other and scattering off into the night. His fingers itch for his camera. "I know, I shouldn't run to her every whim after she left me but..."

 

Roger doesn't tease him. He doesn't move at all. "You should come," Mark says, sitting down beside him on the bed. It dips beneath his weight, but Roger doesn't turn to look at him. "Bring your guitar, maybe. It's been a while since you've played." It's been almost a year. Almost a year since Roger can home, and there was April bleeding out on the bathroom floor. Six months of drugs and angry fits and Mark begging him not to throw his life away. Six more months of withdrawals and relapses and locking himself up in this loft.

 

One time, Mark slipped up and said, "I liked you better on drugs. At least you were alive back then." But that was back when Maureen broke up with him, and Roger spent every day looking at the razor blades in the bathroom.

 

Now all Mark can do is pat Roger on the knee and watch him jerk away. "You've stopped shaking at night," he says, putting his hand back in his lap. "It's been a while now, Roger. You need to get out."

 

There is more of that horrible silence that stretches between them, something that shouldn't be there between best friends. "Why?" Roger asks, his voice sounding rough and unused. "I don't fit in with those people anymore."

 

Outside, a small dog comes out and sniffs at the homeless man still crumpled up in the curb. Mark tears his eyes away from the street, looking back to Roger. "You just need some time to-"

 

Roger snorts, humorless and bitter and nothing like the rock star with the golden smile and childish laugh. He doesn't say anything, doesn't look away from the street. He doesn't have time. Mark frowns, biting over his lip as he stares at Roger, desperate for some sort of reaction. Even the withdrawals, with Roger twisting on the sheets and clawing and sobbing, even those were better than this. More hesitation, and Mark shouldn't be afraid to touch his best friend but he is, before Mark scoots across the bed. Closer to Roger so that he can reach for him, as if Mark is all he needs to pull him out of this silent hell he's putting himself through.

 

Before he can touch Roger, he's jerking away again. Moving more than he has in a while, just to get away from Mark. "Don't."

 

Mark tries not to show any emotions, only the smallest of hurt passing over his features as he pulls his hand away. "I'm sorry," he says, but the apology sounds more confused than anything else.

 

Roger shakes his head before turning back to the window once he's sure he's safe from the contact. "There's no point," he explains, voice sounding just as lost to life as he is now. "It's not like I feel anything, anyway. It's wasted on me."

 

*

 

_ And finally at nine pm when the memory of the girl from four years ago is distant and cold, who is saved from the self contained punishment. _

 

It starts when Mark says his new film is about, "Life."

 

Roger rolls his eyes and picks up his guitar. It feels heavy and awkward in his hands. Hands that have become softer with time; some of his hard earned calluses have faded away from a year of sitting around the loft, unable to play or leave or live. Now the Fender is out of tune and dusty, but Roger feels ready. There's nothing that made that day special. He's been done with withdrawals for about two weeks, it isn't April's anniversary, it isn't a good day out or anything like that. Roger can't explain it, but as he paces around his room, listening to Mark set up his camera, he just feels ready.

 

"About struggle," Mark explains, bent over the tripod he's trying to lock his camera onto. He can't see, but Roger makes a face and climbs up onto the table, guitar set in his lap. It's more of a habit than anything else. Where he sat when April was sprawled out on the couch, listening to him play. Now the table just seems like the sensible place to sit.

 

"I think I should give something new - Shit!" Roger laughs a little as Mark's explanation is cut off by him sucking on his finger, some part of the tripod clattering to the ground. He looks over his shoulder to glare at Roger, cut off when his eyes go wide and his slightly aching finger is forgotten. "You've got your guitar," Mark says, trying to sound like he isn't surprised. Like it's an every day thing to see Roger take steps towards normalcy.

 

"Yeah," Roger says with a shrug, not wanting too much attention brought to it. Such a change from the old Roger who lived to have everyone's attention all the time, looking for glory in the faces of groupies or end of a needle. Now he just wants no one to see him tune his guitar, trying to get his fingers to stretch over the strings after a year of nothing. The first six months he'd been afraid to touch it. Afraid of it bringing back memories of her and all that she'd been to him. Those were the times when people were afraid to say her name around him.

 

That was before Roger realized that what had really been destroying him wasn't the fact that she'd left him like that. Then came the withdrawals, the relapse, more withdrawals and relapsing until Roger felt he had nothing in common with the boy flickering to live in Mark's old films. A year of breaking down and losing himself in drugs and pain and guilt. He lost his song, his health, everything, and Mark just kept prodding. When Roger had been twisting on the covers, begging for a hit Mark held him and clean up after him and said no. When Roger wouldn't move for days because he couldn't find a point, Mark was there with his guitar, pleading with him to come back to life.

 

"There we go," Mark muttered, hands trembling as he slowly backs away from his camera and leaves it steady on the tripod. Roger hits a few notes, wincing at how bad the old thing sounds to him now. There are too many things wrong with it now. He hasn't tuned it in a year, the dust has settled over the thing, the strings are too old and he is out of practice. He growls a bit, playing and willing the Fender to tune itself for him. This had been a bad idea. What had he been thinking when he decided to try this again?

 

Roger swallows hard, fingers slipping slightly and the next few notes are not only out of tune but messy and trembling as well. The virus in his bloodstream - he could feel it getting closer to his core every day. Without withdrawals to keep his mind reeling with the pain, he could concentrate on - couldn't help but think about - how little time he had. Maybe a year more without the smack, but how much is a year?

 

So two or three years at most. That's how long Roger has to make it up to April, to himself, for being such an idiot when he was young and could have had it all but couldn't see that because he'd been so high. A few years to leave something behind when he was gone and decaying, something so that people could remember him as more than the rock star almost who had fucked his life up so bad. Just another druggie the AIDS virus had managed to sweep the world clean of. Roger needs more than that. He needs to leave a mark on someone before the virus rips his body apart.

 

It's the same thing Mark is trying to do to deal with the fact that his best friend has moved out of the loft and become the enemy. That his other best friend, the drug addict ex-star, seems to be content wasting his life away in this place. That everyone he knows had left him or is dying. He backs away from the camera to start this documentary he says is about life and struggle, but Roger knows it's just his last chance to see the faces of the people leaving him behind. Roger knows all this, just like Mark knows the reason Roger is playing his guitar. Writing his own eulogy, in a way.

 

Neither boy tells the other what they think of their escape plans.

 

"December twenty fourth," Mark announces as Roger doubles over his guitar, trying to get it to sound at least halfway decent but it doesn't fit like it use to. He can't even get it to tune. "Nine PM, Eastern Standard Time. From here on in I shoot without a script."


End file.
